Crue

Talk Dirty to Me

T he black leather pants and extra-tight black T-shirt might be a little much for a Friday night at a winery, but I want to show Kyrie what she's missing out on.

I'm not one to brag, but there are a lot of groupies who try unsuccessfully to crawl into my bed. I'm just not one of those one-and-done kind of guys. I want the whole package, and while I've had a few relationships in the past, life on the road makes it hard to maintain a lasting relationship.

Kyrie ran away as soon as she showed me to my room, mumbling something about having to get back to the winery. I should be offended at how fast she tried to escape my company, but I love the thrill of the chase.

"What are you doing here?" Kyrie's body tenses as the towel she was wiping down the bar with stills in her hand.

Ouch, the tone of her voice could be a real blow to a man's ego. Luckily, I can see right through Kyrie's little uninterested act. I saw how her body responded to my touch when we shook hands and how she fought so hard to find me a room as far away from hers. It was adorable.

"Your father invited me here to try some of your award-winning wines. He said you've even given them cute names."

She glares at me for a few seconds before shoving a drink menu at me. I glance over the choices, realizing Mr. Vince was right—the names of her wines aren't just cute, they're genius.

"I'll take a Talk Vino To Me." Her scowl deepens, and I try not to laugh. My little songbird has got some fire in her. "Unless you want to recommend something else."

"What I would recommend for you is probably illegal in every state."

"Well, now, darlin', you have me intrigued." I lean in closer to her until our foreheads are almost touching. "What could you possibly want to do to me that would get you into trouble."

I don't miss how her nostrils flare at my words as she steps back, "I never said I wanted to do it to you."

"I don't think it works that way, darlin', unless you're into that pegging shit, which I'm not. I prefer to be the one doing the sticking in the holes."

"Then I guess we have nothing to worry about because you will never stick anything into any of my holes."

"Never is a long time. You might change your mind about me and be begging for me to fill up all of your holes."

"When pigs fly." She spins around and grabs a bottle off the rack before stomping back to me and slamming it along with a corkscrew on the bar. "Here, that's the only screw you'll be getting from me."

I grab her hand before she can escape to the next customer, "Challenge accepted."

We stare at each other for a few more minutes until a customer waves to get her attention. Reluctantly, I let go of her hand, but not before saying, "This isn't over with by a long shot."

If looks could kill, I would have died a thousand deaths from her icy glare. Even though I've only known her for a few hours, she's worth the risk.

She breaks eye contact first and pastes on a fake smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes before moving down the bar to the customer patiently waiting for her to take his drink order. He's not a bad-looking guy if you're into uptight lawyer douches.

Which she apparently is, if her laugh is any indication. She has a beautiful laugh—almost lyrical, but right now, it sounds more like nails on a chalkboard, grating on my nerves, and I want to smash his face into the granite of the bar top for being the receiving end of it.

"Who pissed in your cereal?" Mr. Vince takes a seat next to me at the bar, and I'm thankful he's not a mind reader because the thoughts I'm having about stripping his daughter bare and fucking her on this very bar top is something no father wants to know about his precious child.

Reining in my jealousy, I put on the same fake smile on my face that Kyrie put on hers and turn to her father. "Nothing, everything is fine—but I'm glad you're here. I wanted to discuss re-recording one of your songs for my band's next album."

"I already told you we aren't going to talk business until the rest of your band gets here." He skillfully uncorks the wine bottle with the corkscrew and motions for one of the other bartenders to bring us two glasses. The bartender sets the glasses down on the bar in front of us and pours some wine into each one before going back to whatever she had been doing before Bon called her over.

He then picks up his glass and holds it up as if inspecting it, lulling me into a false sense of security until he says the one thing that no red-blooded male wants to hear from the father of the woman he wants to fuck, "What are your intentions with my daughter?"